


Like Real People Do

by SleepytimeOtter



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, First Kiss, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Shaving, this is a little bit self indulgent with the shaving but yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27116182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepytimeOtter/pseuds/SleepytimeOtter
Summary: Humans are creatures of routine, when you get down to it. And routine is one of the guiding factors in Eddie Kaspbrak's life; one of the few things he can count on above all else.But, after being skewered by a killer space clown,  routine is often the last thing on his mind.Eventually, he's forced to ask for help.---Or: Eddie needs help with shaving, and Richie is nothing but dedicated.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 191





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> Today is my clowniversary!! When I first walked into the theater a year ago, I never could have imagined that I'd be here for so long. But I've found so much love and made so many friends along the way, and I wouldn't trade it for the world!!
> 
> Thank you to all of you for one wonderful year!!
> 
> Of course, I had to celebrate said year with a new fic!! 🎈🎈
> 
> A big thank you to my friend al for some help with dialogue and overall being the best hypeman!!!

It takes just shy of a month after Eddie's discharged from Derry Methodist to get him to break.

He’d been in the middle of brushing his teeth when it finally dawned on him just how unruly his face had gotten. Eddie hasn’t touched his face, let alone _thought_ about the prospect of shaving since he was discharged into Richie’s care at his temporary loft in Chicago. That means that, by now, his usually straight-laced and cleanly-shaven-every-day look has fallen far by the wayside.

Which is hard for Eddie to comprehend considering he _likes_ shaving. He likes the routine of it all, getting every piece out and ready each morning in order to keep him looking clean, groomed. He likes the feeling of the smoothness of his skin after a close shave, and the soothing smell of the expensive aftershave he’d splurged on back when he was promoted to senior risk analyst. While he was still with Myra, it was one of his favorite parts of the day. It felt good to simply indulge in something, even something so basic as shaving.

And while he has more exciting things in his life than simply shaving (especially now, after returning to Derry, remembering the Losers, and living through the battle with IT,) he still finds himself yearning for the routine of it all.

If he thinks back, the last time his face was this fuzzy was during a very brief phase at the beginning of his college life, while he was trying to figure out who Edward Kaspbrak really was. That period of his life only lasted about three weeks before he'd shaved it all off again, too bothered with the upkeep of the tiniest bit of scruff. 

This time, though, he’s closer to a full beard than just a little scruff, with hair growing out wildly in all different directions in thick swaths across his jaw. It’s made even the simplest tasks like eating difficult -- or _more_ difficult, really because he’s barely able to hold his arms above elbow-height for longer than a few seconds at a time already -- and made yet another part of his body relentlessly itch. With his chest wound the itching was an expected side-effect as it finished the healing process, but with the beard it's just _unnecessary._

It’s equal parts frustrating and embarrassing, the way it bothers him so much. Like he’s being held in the eighth circle of hell, specifically designed to drive Eddie Kaspbrak absolutely wild.

That’s how Richie finds him fifteen minutes later, mid-way through his crisis, sitting dejectedly on the closed toilet lid and craning his neck to stare into the mirror above the sink. 

Richie halts mid-stride, pausing at the open doorway of the bathroom. Eddie can see, in the reflection of the mirror, that Richie is wearing the pair of sweatpants that ride low on his hips that he has recently decided are his mortal enemy. 

It's not like it's a particularly new development that Eddie has noticed Richie's attractiveness, of course. It hit him in his adult life as soon as he walked into the Jade, and it's only increased since. But these sweatpants are a maddening addition to his Richie Attractiveness Problem, showing off every part of Richie's body that Eddie's tried so desperately to avoid gawking at.

So, instead of looking at Richie directly, he sets his jaw and stares, unfocused, at his own reflection.

“Whoa-kay. You -- uh, doin’ okay there, Eds?” Richie says.

“Great."

“Are you sure because,” Richie steps into the bathroom with a crease in between his brows, “you don’t _look_ great.” 

“Thanks." Eddie says, dryly, hoping to deflect from how ridiculous he’s being. 

Richie, usually the master of taking any bait Eddie casts for him, frowns.

“What’s up?" Richie asks, suddenly looking pale. "Is -- fuck, are you sore?"

“No-- no. I’m not _hurting_ Rich.” Eddie says. He stares at his hands clasped on his lap. It’s partially true -- he’s not hurting any more than he usually is, because by now he’s used to the subtle ache of pulling muscle and scar tissue that comes with the territory of being stabbed through by a killer clown. It’s something that’s inevitable, a fact of life for him now; something that might as well be in his hypothetical autobiography. It’s getting to the point where he can ignore it, most days.

But the beard, well, that’s a different thing entirely. Eddie can’t just advert his eyes from his beard like he can his scar -- it’s covering more than half of his fucking face, for God’s sake -- and he definitely can’t ignore the underlying discomfort that comes with having hair tangling on your face each time he grimaces or laughs. And, considering both of which are a frequent occurrence in the Tozier household, Eddie can't afford to let the beard slide.

If he were able to hold his arms up for more than a minute or two at a time, his facial hair would be an easy fix. Sure, he could also ask Richie for help, too, but he's been putting it off. By now he’s more than aware that Richie is happy to drop everything that he’s doing in order to help Eddie, no questions asked. 

But sometimes, Eddie finds asking the question the hardest part.

So maybe he is pained, in a way. He should just get on with it, and ask for what he needs. But. _But._

Like he can read his mind, Richie tries a hesitant: “But?”

Eddie scowls at his hands, like he can somehow will them to work properly again. 

Because If there’s one thing Eddie hates most in the world, it’s being babied. He remembers long years of his mother’s hands and how they felt on him, grabbing and searching and protecting with possessive force, all in the name of what she considered love. Then there was Myra after her, with fleeting, fussy gestures and worried tears, guilting him into complying with her need to coddle him. 

It’s the reason that, for so long, Eddie found himself shying away from any sort of affection or intimacy and outright shunning any form of help offered to him.

But the look on Richie’s face isn’t possessive. It’s cautious -- guarded, maybe -- but soft. Like he’s genuinely looking to help him. 

Eddie sighs, letting out his breath all at once like a deflated balloon. 

“Dude, I-- I’m fucking _shaggy._ "

Richie stares.

Then, stifling laughter and with his best Scooby-Doo Voice, Richie says, “Ruh-roh, you’re _Raggy?_ ”

Eddie wheezes out a laugh, and then bites the inside of his cheek to reign it in.

“Like-- my face is--” 

He tries making some sort of vague gesture, to show Richie the severity of the situation. Richie continues to stare at him with a look that is very obviously carefully crafted to look neutral.

“I mean. Yeah, Eds, you’ve been rockin’ a beard for-- like, two months.” Richie says, as if Eddie isn’t intimately aware of it. 

“Yeah, I _know,_ ” he says, exasperated. “I have no idea how you deal with having hair on your face. Like, it’s itchy and weird, and people say you can’t tickle yourself but _obviously_ they’ve never had a beard because I’m driving myself _nuts._ '

“Well, the usual reason for a beard is so people don’t pick up on the fact you’re _into_ nuts, Eds.”

Eddie sniffs. “I already traded out one of my beards, Rich, so this one’s gotta go, too.” 

Richie’s reaction is instantaneous: He laughs like he’s caught off guard, with a shriek and snort that makes Eddie’s stomach tighten with fondness. Its one of his big laughs, full-body and animated. 

It’s a new thing for both of them, really, making these sorts of jokes. At first, they’d been more hesitant, careful, like it was something to be taken seriously and never joked about. And, considering how it was growing up in Derry, Eddie supposes that in some places it is.

He remembers, vividly, the way that Richie’s eyes widened when he’d come out to Eddie, stuffed into a hospital chair beside him at one AM, his fingers clenched around Eddie’s wrist. He remembers how fragile that moment felt, too, quiet and breathless. How scared Richie had looked, but scared of what -- or _who_ \-- Eddie hadn’t known.

But now, he thinks, he understands. 

The first time he'd looked at Richie and really saw him made every nerve ending on his body spark. He hadn't understood, briefly, the vastness of his overwhelming love for Richie before, but at that moment it clicked together.

The LED light above them flickers, shining across Richie’s face a swath of purple-blue, reminding him of where they are now. Here, in Richie’s guest bathroom, it feels natural to joke about it. It feels safe, in a way Eddie will likely never be able to explain. 

Something must show on Eddie’s face, because when Richie stops to stare at him again it’s quiet, pondering.

“I assume you’re not mentioning how--” Richie lifts his hands and pinches his fingers into air-quotes, “-- _shaggy_ you are for no reason.” 

“No. I’m asking you because I look like a _lumberjack_ and--” Eddie sighs. 

The way Richie’s looking at him makes his resolve soften a little bit, because behind Richie's knee jerk reaction of jokes, the look in his eyes only reflects understanding. Eddie huffs out a breath.

“-- and, I need your help.” He finishes, finally. 

And, because that feels too vulnerable on its own, he adds, “Asshole.”

Richie’s face twists into a few different emotions before he seems to settle on the one that seems the least offensive: surprise. 

“You want _me_ to help you shave?” Richie asks, without a hint of cruelty in his voice. He punctuates each word with an over-exaggerated gesture towards his own chin. “Like, you want _me_ to shave your _face?_ The beard on your face?” 

“What else would I be asking you to shave?” Eddie says, incredulously, raising his voice a little. “Where _else_ would I have a beard?” 

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking!” 

“I only have a beard on my face, Richie! The only place on my body with hair!"

That part, truthfully, is not the case. He's forty years old, for God's sake. But, he's nothing but commited to the bit. But something about his words must strike a chord in Richie, because his face scrunches up a little, like it does when he's thinking of something. And then a beat later it smooths out into an expression that can only be described as embarrassment. 

Richie opens his mouth once, twice, and then clicks it closed.

"Okay!" Richie decides. “I’m going to go get the, uh. Stuff.” 

His cheeks are flushed in an odd, deeply-pink sort of way, but before Eddie can even think to comment on it -- or respond at all, really -- Richie dips through the open door and out towards the upstairs bathroom.

Eddie pretends he doesn’t feel his heart pounding in his ears while he waits.

\---

When Richie returns, any hint of residual weirdness disappears. He cracks a few jokes about being the pack mule when he turns into the bathroom, arms full of a brightly colored fabric caddy. 

There’s something soothing about the sounds of Richie arranging everything out on the marble countertop beside the sink. He’s brought a wide variety of shaving essentials with him -- definitely way more than Eddie would have ever expected Richie to have -- and Eddie watches with rapt attention as he grabs and sets each and every one out. 

The first thing out of the little caddy is an expensive-looking electric razor, followed then by Eddie’s favorite tube of shaving cream, his regular razor, and then a clean tea towel.

Most of the shaving essentials are his, Eddie realizes, when it’s all sat out in front of him. He’d assumed that most of his toiletries would have been stashed away or lost by now, considering that Eddie had been in the hospital for weeks and likely wouldn't be using any toiletries for the foreseeable future. 

He imagines, vividly, Richie pulling out his shaving kit and placing it into the upstairs cabinet for safe-keeping. Eddie can't help but wonder what else Richie had kept safely put away for him. If it meant as much to Richie as it did for him.

It’s a simple little gesture, but it’s enough for Eddie to feel a little burst of affection at the thought.

Then, finally, Richie pulls out a small, unfamiliar, crystalline bottle.

“Is that _your_ aftershave?” Eddie asks, leaning forward to take a closer look. 

“Yeah, Eds. I know you got bougie over the last couple years, but I didn’t see any aftershave in your bag." Richie shrugs. "So you’ll have to deal with eau de Tozier for the time being.”

“ _Aftershave_ makes me bougie? Do you even know what bougie _means?_ ” Eddie exclaims, chopping his hand through the air, ignoring Richie's gleeful expression. “Have you ever used aftershave in your life?”

“I have, in fact, used aftershave Edward,” Richie says, mock-offended. “Hence the fact I _have_ it. I just don’t use it anymore because being scruffy is part of my mysterious charm.” 

“ _And_ , luckily for you it’s not cedar-scented.” Richie adds on, and yet another pang of fondness strikes Eddie. 

Fully curious, now, he cranes his neck to look, and the little label on the front informs him that it’s scent is tobacco and vanilla. He can’t say he’s familiar enough with the scent to have a strong opinion, either way, but as long as it’s not cedar he can deal with it.

“You know me so well.” Eddie aims for a joke, but hits the mark for impossibly fond instead.

His hatred for cedar scents had come up mid-rant while on the fourth day of bed rest in Derry Methodist, after he’d been informed that shaving wasn’t allowed for him for the next few weeks. Sure, the nurses had offered, but they didn’t understand his routine, and the way he liked it. So instead he explained it to Richie, all the way down to his favorite scents. Eddie had assumed, like he often did, that Richie had checked out from the conversation like anyone else had. 

He wonders, distantly, if Richie listens because he hungers for new knowledge on Eddie like Eddie does with him. They knew each other like two sides of the same coin before he moved out of Derry in eleventh grade, but now it felt like he was learning Richie all over again. There were little things, like how he took his coffee (three sugars and five creams), or how he still collected the occasional comic from the 80s, or how he’d briefly had a piercing in one of his ears.

But more surprising still were the small, loving little gestures he’d show, like making sure that Eddie had his favorite snacks or keeping his toiletries stashed away for whenever he needed them. He treated Eddie and all of the other Losers with such care and genuine love that Eddie often finds himself swallowed in it. 

“When I was on SNL the stylist always complained that I kept coming on set with razor bumps, so I’ve been using this ever since,” Richie continues, a little fast. Eddie wonders if he missed him saying anything, but if he had, Richie seems more than happy to move on. “I figure it’d be a good idea since you’re so _shaggy._ ”

“Wow, someone got you to do basic grooming.” Eddie allows a smirk to play at the edge of his lips. “I should send her a fruit basket.”

“A fruit basket? What are you, eighty?” 

“I’m _literally_ six months younger than you.” 

“Ah,” Richie says, sweeping his hand around in a grand gesture. “So what you’re saying is you’re committing elder abuse.”

“Not yet, I’m not.” Eddie says, without bite. Richie beams at him.

"Are you threatening me?" Richie cries. "Why I _never,_ "

"You're the one with the razor, dude." Eddie deadpans. "If you get stabbed, that's on you."

"Aw," Richie coos. "You'd never stab me, Spaghetti."

Richie goes on to switch the tip out of the electric razor, -- after informing Eddie that yes, he disinfected it before he brought it down -- and then soak the first towel in hot water. Eddie watches him then lay the remaining dry towel out on the edge of the counter, spreading it on top of his sorted supplies.

Then Richie, hot towel in hand, finally turns to him. Stepping up slowly, Eddie pointedly does not think about how Richie spreads his knees a little to stand in between them. Richie hesitates for a moment before he slides his fingers beneath Eddie’s jaw, gently tipping his head back. 

His hands are _big_ , Eddie realizes. Long fingers practically envelop the entirety of the underside of his chin with feather-light touches, and the realization makes Eddie’s brain go completely offline for a few heart-stopping seconds. 

“I’ve never done this part -- uh, to myself or anyone else. But I know it’s supposed to help, so?” Richie says, raising the end of his sentence like it’s a question. Eddie’s mouth dries out as he stares up at Richie, who is continuing to cradle his face like it's a precious trinket.

Eddie blinks the little cartoon hearts out of his eyes before he tries to speak. 

“It softens the hair,” Eddie confirms. “Makes it easier to shave.”

“Like baby hairs.” Riche says, incredulously. “Makin’ some peach fuzz.” 

While he’s speaking, Richie brings the hot towel to his face, preventing Eddie’s simmering retort. Eddie hisses at the initial shock of heat. He can physically feel the prickly warmth draw a flush up to his cheeks, opening blood vessels and pores. Softening Eddie's prickly exterior as much as it does his hair.

Watching him carefully, Richie smooths out the rest of the fabric across the bridge of Eddie’s nose, his cheeks, his chin. It suctions to his skin, the hot water dripping down the line of his throat and pooling at the once-dry collar of his shirt.

“Good?” Richie asks cautiously.

The heat was previously unpleasant but now it’s _heavenly_ , familiar, and routine in the best kind of way. Richie lingers for just a moment longer, his fingers brushing against the fabric of Eddie’s sleeve. 

“Mm.” Eddie confirms. “‘S good, Rich.” 

The entire time he considered asking Richie for help, he’d never once thought about how close they’d be during all of this. Or the fact that Richie would be touching his face the entire time. He was so wrapped up in the idea of not wanting to be babied that he hadn’t considered the intimacy of it all. 

Because it’s one thing to have a professional barber -- a man usually as old as Eddie’s father, or even a little older -- shave his face. It’s another thing entirely to have his best friend, whom he may or may have not been in love with for years do it.

Of course, for many of those years Eddie forgot Richie. But while the clown could take away memories it couldn't take his _feelings_ , and Eddie had more than a few of them when it came to Richie. He'd missed him, desperately, in his absence.

Sometimes, Eddie feels like he still misses him, and what they could be.

Eddie swallows beneath the weight of every casual touch, every brush of movement. He feels consumed by his feelings, now, drowning him in a sea of want and yearning.

He shivers a little bit when Richie adjusts the towel, and hopes to any god listening that he doesn’t notice.

After what only feels like a moment, Richie’s phone chimes with the end of his timer. Carefully, he peels the hot washcloth off of his face, and Eddie decidedly does not watch him do it. 

Then he makes quick work of using the electric razor to trim Eddie’s beard down to a more manageable level, using long and lingering strokes, sending the little hairs cascading down off of Eddie’s face and onto his lap.

Eddie’s breath hitches in his throat when Richie tips his head back, holding his chin still with two fingers. He feels heat every place that Richie touches him, prickling with anticipation for the razor to follow.

It’s an odd feeling, having the blade go across his beard. It feels not unlike what Eddie thinks a cat might feel when it’s getting its fur brushed the wrong way. It might be different, he thinks, if he was the one in control. If he was a little less vulnerable. 

As soon as it starts it’s over, and Richie is pulling away from him again.

“Now you look extra fuzzy.” Richie says, incredulously, tilting his chin back and forth. “Your peach makeover is complete.”

“You're giving me the Tozier experience.” Eddie says. “Living with you three months and I’m already turning into a Bigfoot-Jr.” 

“ _Junior_ is right.”

“Ha-ha, funnyman makes short joke.” Eddie gripes in what he hopes is his best Bigfoot-adjacent voice.

Richie’s laughter echoing in his ears makes Eddie’s heart flutter as much as watching him pick up the shaving cream does. He squeezes a dollop onto his palms, working it into a quick lather before he steps in-between Eddie’s knees again. Neither of them are laughing now.

Eddie trains his gaze onto the tile just over Richie’s shoulder. Working slowly, Richie spreads the foam up from the scratch of his jaw to the crook of his ear. Then he goes a little further up his cheeks, to his chin, and then finally just below his lips. Suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to lean down and kiss Richie’s fingertips, Eddie tips his head back and flutters his eyes closed instead. 

It’s always hard to keep composure around Richie on a good day, but when Richie slides below the line of Eddie’s jaw and holds his hand there, almost gentle enough to be caressing him, it’s nearly impossible.

Living with Richie has made it increasingly obvious that they both treat each other differently than they treat the rest of the Losers, with both their routines and their affections. 

So it doesn’t take long for him to notice how Richie’s fingers linger -- just a touch too long for a normal shave between friends, but moving on quickly enough to give the benefit of the doubt. It’s another little way that Eddie can feel them dancing around the elephant in the room, testing the waters to see how far they can go without it being too dangerous.

Logically, he’s assessed the risk for their relationship. He knows full well that, even if he _is_ projecting and Richie _isn’t_ flirting with him, that Richie likely wouldn't abandon him post-confession. But he also knows that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, any sort of confession will change their relationship forever. 

If Eddie does turn out to be wrong, he can kiss the lingering touches and the soft stares and the too-fond jokes goodbye. 

And, considering the only thing he wants to kiss is Richie, he knows he can’t live with that scenario. 

Richie pulls his hands away from him suddenly, startling him out of his daydreams. Using the towel he'd set aside, he wipes excess shaving cream off of his fingers and finally, _finally_ , decides to stop torturing him. Richie fidgets a little bit while he wets the razor.

“Alright. Here we go,” Richie says. “Lemme know if I get you.” 

Eddie wants to say _you got me already, hook, line, and sinker._

“I think I can handle it,” Eddie says instead, puffing out his scarred cheek.

“I’m not gonna stab you, dude, no matter how often you bring it up. You’re gruff enough already with your, like, super-sick scars, brah.”

Richie doesn’t give him too long to think about his comment of _gruffness_ and gets to work, pressing the polished metal to his skin.

With long and careful swipes, Richie begins shaving away the last remnants of Bedridden Eddie. He rinses off the razor in-between strokes, carefully wiping away hair and foam before leaning in and beginning again. He can feel Richie’s breath on him, now, and finds himself oddly charmed by the way Richie seems to hold it each time he presses the razor to Eddie’s skin.

With every pass of the razor, Eddie feels a little more like himself again. It’s like Richie is turning back the hands of time with each layer of stubble he removes, and for the first time in weeks Eddie feels like he can finally relax. Leaning back, he falls languid into each movement of Richie’s hands. It has to be one of the most intimate and vulnerable positions he’s ever been in -- especially after Bowers -- but when it’s Richie, he can’t find it in himself to be worried. 

Richie, who’s big hands are cradling him with the utmost care and gentleness, and who is looking back up at him every so often to make sure he’s still okay. 

The first person in his life who has shown him what true care should feel like -- warm and comforting.

Tucking away that thought for later, Eddie turns his attention back to Richie. Richie’s intense focus is painted like a billboard over his face. His blue eyes are wide behind his glasses, gaze carefully following his hands’ slow and steady movements.

Before he can catch him staring, Eddie looks back over Richie’s shoulder. He maps and memorizes the square shapes of the grout and the colors of each tile, trying to ignore the way his body wants to press close to Richie like a flower searching for the sun. 

Eddie’s hyper-aware of the pressure on his throat when Richie moves to hold him still, finishing up on both sides of his cheek -- carefully avoiding the scar high on his left cheekbone -- and the way it sends electricity down his spine. 

Richie slides his hand down a little further, cupping the point between his Adam’s apple and jugular, and this time it feels more like caressing than it is holding him still. Heat lingers behind each movement of his fingers, trailing down from his throat before stopping just shy of the soggy collar of his shirt. 

Fingers scrub at the curly little hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck idly, and he shivers. This time when he goes to steal another glance at Richie, he finds he’s not the only one looking. Richie’s eyes meet his, and suddenly it feels like he’s _seeing_ him. All that is Eddie, and what lies beneath.

Richie’s pupils dilate. His mouth falls open slightly. Eddie wonders what it would feel like to press his mouth to his. 

A flush creeps up his throat. 

“One more pass,” Richie announces, just a little too loudly. He pulls away to retrieve a towel, giving Eddie a moment to breathe. 

Eddie sucks in a breath as he gently brings the same, warm towel from earlier up to his face, re-wetted to its former steaming glory. This time he wipes away all the remnants of the shaving cream and replaces it with another layer, and Eddie relaxes at the feeling of smoothness beneath Richie’s fingers. 

Richie starts at the line of his jaw this time, using one of his palms to carefully hold his head upward as he starts the process again. He can feel his fingers on his pulse-point, and wonders if Richie can feel every time Eddie’s heart rate kicks up. 

Taking a little bit of a risk, he leans into Richie’s touch. It’s a gentle thing, something that he can write off as nothing more than him being too relaxed, but enough of a move that Richie notices. Eddie hears Richie’s breath hitch more than he sees it when he rests his cheek on the hand steadying his jaw, fluttering his eyes closed. 

But, to his surprise, Richie doesn’t pull away. If anything he leans in a little closer, pushing their thighs flush against each other. His warmth seeps between them, through the layers of their lounge pants, and Eddie sighs. 

It's almost as if the warmth of Richie’s hands releases the long line of tension down his spine, washing away the months of exhaustion and discomfort. He feels a small pang of guilt for indulging like this, getting himself used to something that he isn’t sure he can even have, but he supposes it’s okay for him to get lost in it just this once. 

And, as it turns out, he has plenty of time to enjoy it. Richie is nothing if not thorough, taking deliberate passes that overlap just slightly. This part of the shaving process is supposed to be faster, Eddie knows, but it seems like he’s inclined to take his time. He shaves just a little too gingerly around the line of Eddie’s lip and takes even more care around the scar jutting out of his cheek than he had the first time, keeping a snail’s pace. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

Or, maybe it’s the worst thing he’s ever felt. Eddie can’t be certain.

Each pass is smoother than the last, and Eddie knows that Richie can only delay it for so long.

Richie seems to come to the same conclusion, because he speeds up a little bit, returning to more of a normal pace. His fingers don’t linger as long, and his eyes keep trained only on the razor. 

Something about the sudden change makes bile churn in Eddie’s gut, red-hot and steaming. 

_Look at me,_ it says. _Look at me, look at me._

He watches Richie close enough to see how his face turns back into a neutral mask, apparently satisfied with the closeness of the shave and the detachment he’s achieved before finishing it up. He wipes away the lather for a final time, and reaches for the aftershave. 

It’s a nice, warm scent that wraps around him, clouding his senses. While he couldn’t place the scent of tobacco and vanilla earlier, he can tell instantly that it’s something that Richie uses often. It’s something he associates with Richie’s outings, when he shaves just enough to take some of the rugged edge off. 

The realization that he’ll be left smelling of Richie is what finally breaks the leaking dam holding him together. It's like the entirety of his swelling love for Richie pours through him, seeping down to the tips of his toes. It's charged, electric, and he sucks in a breath.

His mind is set ablaze as Richie dabs it along his cheek, his jawline, his chin.

“Alright, Spaghetti-O,” Eddie can see a smart remark forming on Richie’s lips as he prepares to pull away. 

But before Richie can pull them back into their normal banter, Eddie surges forward, pulling him into a kiss instead.

Eddie twists his fingers into Richie’s worn T-shirt to keep the two of them steady, using every ounce of strength he has to pull himself up to standing. Richie’s breath leaves him in a heavy _whoosh_ , washing over Eddie’s cheeks as it escapes the bond of their lips. He has a split-second moment to worry that he’d read the situation wrong, that he’d fucked up everything he’d struggled so hard to keep. No matter what happens, no matter if Richie pushes him away, he can revel in this. Even if he misread every gentle touch and lingering look, and every movement of Richie’s lips, he could be fine with just this. 

But then Richie cups his face with both of his hands and melts into it. And then he’s kissing him _back_ , with his surprisingly soft lips and gentle movements of his mouth. Eddie feels the warmth of it down to the tips of his toes, his mind filled with nothing but _Richie, Richie, Richie._

Richie’s fingers are hot against the smooth expanse of his cheeks, holding him delicately and stroking his fingers against his jaw, pulling him in close like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he was born to do it.

He’d never expected that kissing Richie would feel like this, with an underlying heat and comfort that he’s never experienced in his life. He’s spent many nights thinking about it, fantasizing what it might feel like, but nothing can compare to the real thing.

If you’d asked him before what his ideal first kiss with Richie would be like, the answer definitely wouldn’t be in the bathroom of Richie’s apartment, covered in his own hair, but, now that he’s here, he can’t say he hates it.

Eddie swipes his tongue against Richie’s bottom lip before he pulls away, reveling in the gentle sound their lips make when they part. 

With an iron ball of lingering anxiety in his stomach, he flickers his gaze back up to Richie. He’s obviously dazed but looking pleasantly surprised, lips still slightly parted.

“I hope you don’t do that to all the barbers out there,” Richie jokes, breaking the silence with his rough voice. It's rough like Eddie's never heard before, low and gravelly. The sound of it sends a jolt down his spine. It feels like Eddie’s floating, loose-limbed and light, and he can’t help but laugh.

“Until barbers start treating me like _that,_ I think you’re safe.” 

“Like _what?_ Richie says, continuing to hold him close. “I was just helping you out! _You_ asked _me!_ ”

Richie gasps. "Edward, were you trying to _seduce_ me?"

“What?-- I--No! _You_ were looking at me like you wanted to kiss me!” Eddie exclaims, feeling the heat of a blush spreading down past the collar of his shirt.

Richie blinks once, twice. 

“I mean, yeah. I always wanna kiss you, Eds.” 

Eddie can physically feel his brain reboot like a clunky, early 2000’s Windows PC, turning Richie’s words over in his head for a few seconds as it comes back online. 

“You want to kiss _me?_ ” He says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I want to kiss _you!_ ” 

“I didn’t know it was a contest!”

“Everything is a contest with us, dipshit!”

“Mmm, tell me how much of a dipshit I am.” Richie purrs, pulling him in to press their lips together a second time. “I’m going to win this contest so hard,”

It’s like all of the energy that was charged between them for the last twenty minutes built up to this moment, pulling them together like two magnets. Richie’s stubble scrapes against his newly-shaved and sensitive jaw, and he knows he’ll be feeling it later but can’t find it in him to care. Their mouths move together, a little less chaste this time, until Eddie’s having to gasp out little breaths.

With the knowledge to know that he’s not the only one, that Richie Tozier is in love with him, too, their kisses taste sweeter. He presses their bodies flush together, feeling their warmth spread between them like a warm summer’s day. One of Richie’s hands moves lower to rest on the scar on his chest, a gentle touch that feels like everything Eddie’s ever needed. A gesture that says: _you saved me. We can save each other, now._

Bringing attention to the divot makes him realize that it’s really beginning to ache, though, forcing him to reluctantly pull away. He elects to do the next best thing and leans forward to press his forehead in the crook of Richie’s shoulder instead, stretching his back and listening to the steady ba-bum, ba-bum of his heart. 

They fall quiet for a moment, with only the sound of their breathing bouncing off the tile around them.

Richie breaks the silence first. “This barber would give you a very hefty tip,” he murmurs. “10/10, would shave again. Five stars on _Yelp._ "

“Shouldn’t I be the one leaving you a tip?” Eddie snorts. “Or a _Yelp_ review?” 

“You can leave me a tip and a Yelp review,” Richie leans down to kiss at him again, mumbling against his lips. “Or, you can help me clean up and we can move this out of the bathroom.” 

Looking down, Eddie can see all the bits of hair and foam stuck to his pajama bottoms and piled around him in a little halo. He purses his lips.

If you’d asked him before what his ideal first kiss with Richie would be like, the answer definitely wouldn’t be in the bathroom of his apartment, covered in my own hair. 

Ideally, it would have been anywhere else, really. But, he guesses, if anything were to sum up he and Richie’s relationship, it would be their spontaneity. His heart squeezes beneath his ribs. 

“The couch sounds good.” Eddie decides. 

“It’s comfier than the toilet,”

Richie says. "Probably a little bit cleaner, too."

“Eugh, Rich.” Eddie’s face twists. 

Richie stares at him like he hung the moon, and then he laughs, high and obnoxious. To Eddie it sounds like music. 

The two of them begin to pack up the supplies together, dancing around each other, bickering and shoving in a love language all their own. The foam slides between their socked feet in a way that Eddie might have found disgusting at any other point in time, but now he only feels fond. It feels special, here, being with Richie in their own little world.

“Thanks, Rich.” Whether he means for the shave, or for everything, not even Eddie knows. Richie smiles like maybe he does.

This time, when Eddie has the urge to grab onto Richie’s hand and kiss his fingertips, he indulges it, leaning down to kiss his knuckles.

And this time, Richie squeezes right back.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me on Twitter @ [evvobevvo!](https://twitter.com/evvobevvo)


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